


Lost Potential

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath of Violence, Blood, Death, Dream Bubble, Gore, M/M, Sadstuck, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's not a lot of point in resisting; as he's fond of pointing out, on some level you must <em>want</em> to do what he says, or he wouldn't be suggesting it."</p><p>Being trapped in the afterlife with a splintered dream-version of your best friend is hard. It's hard, and he understands perfectly, because oh, he's you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

          "You're much handsomer when you're not sulking." You don't look up. Two splinters ago, you would have. Five, you would have just about jumped out of your skin. Ten, you would have screamed, even though he's a part of you, even though, at some level, you must know he's there before he actually says anything.  
          He sits down next to you on the bed, and it's so odd, you think, for the mattress to depress under the entirety of his weight when it looks like he's only half there. See-through and shimmery, like you used to visualize the auto-responder, before he got under your skin and now all you think of when you think of him is that damnable pair of glasses.  
          You wonder, briefly, how he's doing.  
          "He was pretty much heading the show as Jane's server player, last I heard. Dirk was entertaining ideas of prototyping him, but who knows, Auto's probably got his own ideas on the matter. Besides, now he'll pick something brainless, so there's no competing personality with yours. It'd be more than the usual brand of strange to mack on someone that's half thirteen-year-old you."  
          You shudder, trying not to think about it. You've gotten good at that, not thinking about things in this place where thoughts and memories shape themselves into reality. Desperation will make a man master of many a strange trade.  
          "Hey," he says, and it's soft. A hand cups your cheek, turning you to face him. "Look at me."  
          There's not a lot of point in resisting; as he's fond of pointing out, on some level you must _want_ to look at him, or he wouldn't be suggesting it. Your gaze traces a slow path up from his flickering legs to his scratched and torn shirt, chest in a similar state underneath. Your survey stutters at the gore-shrouded hole just to the left of the center of his chest, blood seeping out and dripping down to static out and leave no trace. It's with sob that you tear your eyes away and keep going, past the ligature marks around his neck, past the missing tooth in his smirking grin and the cut on his cheek to meet his white eyes.  
          See-through and shimmer. Like a ghost.  
          "Why?" you croak out, and his smile turns sad, stroking his thumb over your cheek. "Much as I know about the mad tripping depths of your psyche, conscious and subconscious, I don't know. I'd come to you some other way if I could, but you, ahh, you're p-puhllin, nngh—" he cuts off, the hand on your cheek sliding down to your shoulder to seize and spasm, fingers digging into your skin while his free one goes to the gaping hole that's suddenly begun gushing blood that doesn't disappear into nothingness, that seeps into his shirt and drips its way down to your white and green bedspread.  
          Two splinters ago, you would have cried. Five, you would have tried to stem the flow of blood. Ten, you would have scolded him like a child, told him it wasn't real and this needed to stop _this instant_. But you've seen this too many times. You place a hand on his sternum, carefully push him back til he's lying flat on your bed, legs hanging off the end and head turned to try to look at you. You lay down too, facing him on your side, head propped up on your arm. He gives you a weak smile and a, "S-sorry I can't, ahh, draw you—"  
          "I'm English," you say. "Not French." It earns you a weak smile and a laugh that turns to a wet, blood-laced cough. It goes on too long, and somewhere in the middle, your free hand snakes out to grab one of his, giving a squeeze to his clammy grip.  
          "Don't come back," you say. "I don't want you to come back."  
          He runs his tongue over his blood-pink teeth, swallowing. "Can't lie to me, babe."  
          "I'm not," you say. "Please don't come back. Just. Stay dead, for fuck's sake, stay _dead_."  
          The corner of his eyes crinkle, and you know that's his tell for when he's being sincere, because you think that's his tell for when he's being sincere. "Sorry," he says. "No-can-do, bromo-sapien." His hand is limp in yours, and he's down to shuddering gasps. "L-love you." His breath comes out in a sigh you've heard enough times before to know it's his last.  
          You roll over to face the headboard, away from him, though there's no getting away from the copper-tang smell of blood.  
          You'd think you would have gotten used to it by now.


	2. Chapter 2

          "Smile for me, sweet cheeks." He catches you at the computer this time, sending messages to half-formed memories that can't connect to the outside, to the living, any more than he can. His arms slide around you from behind until he's resting his head on your shoulder, computer chair pressed between the two of you. You don't like him so close, but you don't like him being there at all, so you guess it's just as well that you can't see him.   
          "There has to be a way."   
          One of his hands starts tracing lazy circles on your stomach. "There's plenty of ways, all out of our control."   
          You crane your head to look at him, pulling away a little with a scowl. "I can't just let him die."  
          You're not sure from this angle, but he might be smirking. "I don't know, you'd think you'd be used to it by now."  
          Something bottoms out in your stomach, heavy and twisting. "You're not real. It's not the same thing."  
          He shrugs, a movement you can feel from the way he's pressed up against you. "You know that it's going to happen. You're trying to prepare yourself."  
          You push yourself away from the desk, practically running him over and forcing him to disentangle and step back. "I'm trying to stop it!"  
          You're breathing too heavy, staring him down, watching the slow drip of blood from the hole in his chest fizzle to static. It makes your pulse race in response, makes you feel like you're running out of time, even though he's not real, even though he'll come back (you don't want him to come back, but you _really_ don't want him to leave). "What's the point in you telling me all the things I didn't know I knew if it's not what I _need_?"  
          He shrugs, winces. "Sorry. I can't exactly learn anything new, I'm stuck here with you."  
          You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. "Then how'd you even know to begin with? This green fellow, Aranea said I was named after him, it wouldn't make any sense—"  
          "You're not dumb, you know she said he exists across time and space. Linear causality isn't an issue here."  
          A sigh shudders out of you, your head sinking down to rest in your hands. "I don't see how I could do that to him."  
          He puts a hand on your leg, and your head jerks up, white eyes meeting white. "Your dreamself never woke up," he says. "He doesn't have much of an established personality. He's more like a vessel of power, and the real Dirk is going to hand it over to whatever dumb shit he prototypes dream-you with."  
          "It's not fair. I could _warn_ him if our bubble just hit someone _else's_." It comes out plaintive and high, and the second time in a row, he's cupping your cheek, running his thumb along your skin. "It's—"  
          He ruins the moment by coughing blood all over your face. You haul him into your lap when his knees give out, twisting him around so his back's resting against your chest, now. Coughing, and wracking shudders, and warm sticky-wet dripping down over your arms.   
          Then silence.


	3. Chapter 3

          "You could—"  
          "Shut up." You're not looking at him, but he's part of you, so you know, somehow you know, that his mouth snaps shut and his arms drop to his sides, stance stiff. "Get on the bed."  
          Real Strider would smile. Real Strider would give you a quip about how eager he was to rustle your jimmies or some such. But fake Strider knows what you're doing, so he doesn't.  
          You turn to him then, climb on the bed and straddle him. He's laying down, on his back, already where you want him, and for just a moment, your mind goes to how it might have been, being with someone that knew what you wanted before you did, and gave it to you. Then you shake off the thought and, in a gesture you've only ever seen in movies, bow your head and pray.  
          He says, "I'm sorry." You squeeze your eyes shut a little tighter, lips moving soundlessly.  
          He says, "I should have said something earlier, but I hate to see you sad." You ignore him, keep your eyes closed, and lean forward to wrap your hands around his neck, letting a last "Amen" whisper past your lips.  
          He says, "This isn't your fault," and you squeeze.  
          He stops thrashing before you get the first gush of blood. You keep pushing, pushing down on his throat, shaking with eyes squeezed shut until you hear a voice you know, but different, more unsure than you ever imagined it could be. "Jake?"  
          Your eyes fly open and your head whips to the side. That doesn't make sense. It should have worked. It—  
          Those aren't his normal clothes. Those are  
          he's  
          "Dirk?"  
          real.  
          He's real, and his eyes are white. You're too late.  
          "Jake, what are you doing?" You swing one leg over, or go to anyway, but bang it on the stone slab and wince.  
          Stone. It—  
          You slide off just as the slab starts to glow, and back up quickly as Strider, the real one, comes up beside you, hand slipping easily into yours, like that's where it belongs. "What's going on?" he asks.  
          You look at where your bed used to be, replaced by a stone slab of washed-out fuschia striped with faded gold, something dyed deep purple and sunshine yellow and left to fade outside for years. It's glowing, the prone form that looks-like-him-isn't-him-ismorethanhim-less-stopthinkingaboutit—he's glowing. "It's a quest bed," you say.  
          "It looks off," he says. "How'd you get it in here?"  
          "Imagined it," you say. "I know a bunch of stuff from the game, something to do with my title."  
          "And he's?"  
          "You. Something to do with your title."  
          You're silent then, watching splinter-Dirk rise, glow pulsing slow, and you wonder if that's part of the process, or unique to him, a holdover to his shimmery, flickering form.  
          "Is this going to work?" he asks, giving your hand a small squeeze. "Will he actually come back to life if he was never alive?"  
          You look over at him, and even though his eyes are white, without the ligature marks, the blood, the gaping wound in his chest, , bloody saliva spilling from his mouth—he looks good. Healthy.  
          Kissable.  
          "Dunno," you say, giving him a small smile, smaller, you think, than if you'd seen him one splinter ago. "I hope so."  
          "Yeah," he says. "Me too."  
          The glow pulses to a blinding white, and the hand in yours tugs you close, pulling you into a kiss. Something twinges inside your chest, and you wonder what it would have been like to kiss someone who knew what you wanted before you did, and gave it to you.


End file.
